


Under a Bloody Texas Sky

by lovesrogue36



Series: Taurean Birthday Presents [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Gen, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Object Penetration, POV First Person, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie accidentally stumbles on an intimate moment between Miles and Bass. She knows she should just walk away, leave them to it, but instead, she crouches in the bushes to watch. Set loosely after 216.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Bloody Texas Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maywitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maywitch/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, N!!! Remember how I said this wasn't going to be all that descriptive or explicit? Well, apparently I lied. In fact, B was even skeptical of it's filthiness before she read it at which point it received a wholehearted stamp of approval...
> 
> Hope your day is fab and filled with cake (yes, and graceful frosted fingers. ;D)

I’m walking back to the new (probably compromised, thanks to Miles and Mom) safe house from the makeshift camp we’ve set up for my guys. It’s hot for spring, and for a flash, I miss Wisconsin.

Dry grass crunches under my feet and my belt jangles around my waist, a constant in my life, driving away (or maybe causing) my headaches. Goddamn, I’m tired: my skin feels burnt and stretched too tight and my feet are aching. Something’s sticking into the skin of my calf, been there all day, and I stoop to pluck a foxtail out of the top of my boot. That’s when I hear it: the distinctive sounds of two people making out.

Rustling bushes, stifled moans and all.

At first I think maybe it’s just a couple of kids from Willoughby out here for a little fun but I draw my blade and crouch behind the bushes anyway, just in case.

There, not a hundred yards from the safe house and with only some sparse brush for cover, are Miles and Monroe with their hands fisted in each other’s hair and shirts, tongues shoved into their mouths. I clap a hand over my mouth in surprise, eyes going wide. I mean, I guess I’m not as shocked as I could be but it’s a different thing to see than it is to imagine.

Miles jerks away all of a sudden, glowering at Monroe, and I think they’re going to descend into brawling like they usually do. Just about the time I’m ready to make my presence known and break them up, Miles yanks his weapons belt off and drops it to the ground with a clatter. Monroe matches the metaphorical gauntlet, shrugging out of his jacket and leaving it to crumple in the dirt. Almost before I can blink, he’s stepping into Miles’ arms again, sucking the taller man’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Miles reaches down with those big, encompassing hands of his to squeeze Monroe’s ass through denim, grinding a thigh between his. I bite my lip, suppressing a whimper at the way Monroe melts a little, sinks onto Miles’ thigh with a touch of desperation.

I watch as they discard the barest amount of clothing possible and then tumble to the ground, looking as much like they’re fighting as making love. Miles sprawls on top of Monroe and pins his hands down, mouthing along the other man’s exposed throat. He must be doing something clever with his tongue because Monroe’s groaning and panting and he keeps jerking his hips up eagerly.

My hand clenches on the knife and I realize abruptly that I’m still crouched in the bushes but now I’m stuck. If I move, they’ll certainly hear me. For that matter, I’m not sure I want to move. I’m a little mesmerized, actually.

They’re sort of… beautiful.

They move in a harsh, jagged concert, Monroe’s hands clenching into fists, arms straining under Miles’ grip. I squint, instinctively trying to see better across the expanse of Texan haze between us, and I can just make out the shape of their cocks, crammed together between them and the denim yanked down over their thighs.

I blush suddenly, my eyes darting up to their faces. These aren’t just two objectively attractive men I’m spying on: this is my uncle, my supposed enemy.

I constantly feel like I should be more shocked by things, more appalled, more ashamed. I’m just _not_.

Miles finally releases one of Monroe’s captured wrists and licks his own fingers, only to shove his large hand between them. At first I think he’s jerking Monroe and my body thrums even just at that thought, but then I realize, no, he’s working a finger, maybe two, up inside the other man.

My cheeks burn and my panties feel abruptly sticky and wet. I can’t help wondering what that feels like, the angle and muscle of two men, grinding against each other. Some part of me wants to be between them, wants to feel them up close. Wants to feel the scratch of stubble and callouses and cocks, times two.

Monroe groans, a little louder this time, and he cracks his head back into the ground, eyes slammed shut. Whatever Miles is doing, it’s driving all three of us to distraction. Still clutching the knife, I wrench my belt loose and shove my free hand beneath the waistband of my pants. I meet threadbare panties first, then wiry bristles, and then finally, my wrist stretching the fabric away from me, wet, slick skin.

I bite my lip over a moan and pitch forward slightly onto my knees, my body clamping onto two fingertips and all but sucking them up inside me. My nipples are hard beneath the cotton of my tank and I drive the knife point into the dirt for balance, my hand braced on the hilt. When I lift my head again, Miles is on his knees, Monroe’s legs spread wide around him so I can see the muscles in his bare thighs and the curve of his hip. Miles is working the blunt head of his cock into him and my skin prickles at the sight.

They’re hissing and whispering things at each other that I can’t hope to make out but I realize suddenly that they both look pissed. Like this is just a different kind of brawling than I expected.

Monroe stifles a gasp as Miles finally sinks into him and I stroke my clit with the heel of my palm, imprecise but effective. One of them whispers a quietly echoing “ _fuck_ ” and I have to agree. I feel even more strung tight than I did a few minutes ago, before stumbling onto this _quaint_ little scene.

I glance down at the knife hilt still clutched in my hand and swallow hard. It’s not safe or even remotely sanitary, but then, what in our world is? Before I can change my mind, I’m wiping my fingers on my pants and pushing them down my thighs. This is, logically, idiotic but I’ve been wound tight for weeks, maybe months. This? This is something I need.

Anyone could get the drop on me like this, my ass bared and my attention zeroed in on the two men sprawled in front of me, but I could care less (maybe I’d even welcome it.) I yank the knife out of the ground and slide the hilt down between my legs, carefully holding my thighs apart so as not to touch the blade, and run the blunt end over myself. I almost whimper aloud at the thickness of it and, eager, push in until my body gives around the foreign, unyielding surface. Sliding the hilt in an inch, maybe two, I hold it there cautiously, muscles clenching on it.

Maybe I should feel filthy, sitting here like this, but Miles is smothering Monroe’s moans and cries with his mouth, tongue lapping at perfect white teeth, and I can’t bring myself to be ashamed. No space left in me to waste on shame. I knead at my clit with my free hand and, no, it’s not half as good as a live body under me, but there’s something exhilarating about the threat of getting caught, about the danger of a sharp blade so close to nicking me, about the taboo of not just peeping on a private moment but on _this_ private moment with _these_ two people.

I watch Miles come with grit teeth and his tongue caught between his lips. God, I want to feel that. I’d never ask, would never initiate, but the look on Monroe’s face as Miles comes deep inside him, filling him up, makes me absurdly envious. I jam the hilt a little harder into me, and my eyes water a bit with the need for release.

Monroe flings an arm up, the one with the twisted, nasty scar he inflicted on himself, and digs long fingers into Miles’ wool jacket. Miles is barely finished coming but he’s already pushing a hand between them, jerking Monroe off until he comes on both their clothes, boots scrabbling in the dirt.

I choke on my gasp, getting careless for a moment and dragging a thin line of blood on my thigh; I have to wedge a knuckle in my mouth to keep from giving myself away, the blood smearing across my skin. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it spurs me on, eyes falling half shut.

Sinking down onto my haunches, I roll almost involuntarily to the side and thrust the hilt at the sharpest, most agonizing angle I can take until my hands shake and my thighs tremble and I’m coming with ragged, shallow breaths (breaths they can almost surely hear but that none of us acknowledges.)

I lay there in the scratchy, unpleasant brush, exposed, staring at the bright blue Texas sky as I try to get my breathing under control. Turning my head to peer through the dry weeds, I watch them, clearly reluctant to pull apart.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Miles is panting.

Monroe scoffs, still gasping for breath, “Didn’t think it did.”

But Miles threads his fingers through Monroe’s, pressing the back of his hand into the ground, and kisses him hard, like he’s trying to get inside him all over again.


End file.
